


Plant Your Fields of Lavender and Chamomile

by Araceil



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: (I.Q. of 200+ but still a moron), (i cannot stress that enough), (kinda - he's fucking stupid tho), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Boxer Tom Riddle, Cognitive Dissonance, Cuddling, Drama, Enemies to Married, Himbo Tom Riddle, Humour, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Miscommunication, Night Terrors, PTSD, Past Child Abuse, Ravenclaw Tom Riddle, Romance, Sane Tom Riddle, Smart of Brain - Dumb of Ass, Stalker Harry Potter, Timetravel Fix-It (gone wrong), Tom Riddle thinks far too highly of himself, Unreliable Narrator, Yo he's fucking thick as pigshit, alternating povs, but still smarter than everyone else, complimentary magic, idiots finding love, more tags to be added later, no beta we die like men, timetravel, tomarry - Freeform, touch starvation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-06
Updated: 2021-01-08
Packaged: 2021-03-10 02:07:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 18,178
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27916492
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Araceil/pseuds/Araceil
Summary: "Many people have pursued me over the years, but very few have done so with even half of the skill or dedication you have displayed. And then there is your magic.” He had to stop there, feeling it pulse with heat and fire and oh to feel it on his skin, he wanted to wrap it in his own and sink into him - but he wasn’t about to do something so vulgar in a public location.“What of it?” the young man demanded defensively, bristling uncertainly.“Marry me.”His stalker blinked, mouth opening slightly in disbelief.He just smirked at him, “Your dedication is incredibly gratifying, and your magic is lovely. You have most assuredly won me over. Marry me. I assure you, I will be a very good husband.”When Harry Potter found himself stumbling into the 1960's, confused and lost after getting caught in some manner of ritual shenanigans masterminded by remnants of the Death Eaters, he didn't know what to expect. So he did what he did best, he went looking for trouble. And he found it. Tom Riddle should be in Albania, and Harry's determined to find out why before anyone else dies. Even if he has to marry him to do it.
Relationships: Harry Potter/Tom Riddle
Comments: 419
Kudos: 2070
Collections: Harry Potter and TMR, Top-tier HP/TMR Fics





	1. Chapter 1

Someone was stalking him.

That in itself wasn’t unusual for Tom Riddle. Ever since he’d graduated from Hogwarts and made clear his intention of going into politics at the Ministry of Magic, it felt like someone was always watching his every move. But this level of focus, this intensity, was different. And the source… not one of those overly perfumed and presented witches or wizards that occasionally sought to charm their way into his good graces or his bed, or one of those shady disreputable and easily disposed of individuals of Knockturn Alley, nor was it one of the greying old men with whom he often butted heads at the Ministry.

No, his current watcher was of a far more  _ interesting _ kind.

For one, he was very good at what he did. Usually Tom was able to identify when he was being watched immediately and who was doing so, their motives typically revealed themselves within the day. But this one, it took him considerable time to identify that he  _ was _ being watched, a number of weeks before he managed to catch a glimpse of whom, and he  _ still _ had not yet discovered why he was under such intense scrutiny or observation.

The young man was… interesting. 

Absolutely  _ fascinating _ .

The spells he used were completely foreign and unknown to Tom, and he had spent many hours subtly exploring them while pretending to have not noticed the young man following him. Then there was the manner of his dress, his clothing style was unlike any Tom had seen before. More akin to that of the muggle-fashions he saw out in London but still not quite right. In a word, he was scruffy. But he didn’t  _ hold _ himself like a vagrant, or act like one despite his suspicious behaviours. No, he stood tall and proud, he stood with confidence and absolute certainty, about what, Tom had yet to divine, but there was something very compelling about it.

He watched Tom at all times, who he spoke to, his comings and goings. Tom had long since stopped bringing such things to the aurors’ attention after the first few when nothing came of it and in fact, he witnessed said aurors laughing and joking with his then watchers before wandering off seemingly without care. He had dealt with all individuals personally since.

He had no qualms of such before now, but something about this one made him hesitate.

It was those instincts he earned and honed through years at Wool’s Orphanage, and then as a mudblood Ravenclaw in Hogwarts during the rise of Grindelwald, during summers in London at war, during the Blitz, and then the aftermath of both Grindelwald’s fall and the end of the War. Not to mention the backlash when he entered into Ministry Politics, determined to force  _ change _ down the throats of those dusty fossils that refused to acknowledge the muggle world and the many benefits of the muggleborn that came in. The very same vile beings who would have welcomed Hitler with open arms and coin-pouches if only he said the word ‘Mudblood’ instead of ‘Jew’. Then there was the absolute uproar that occurred when it was discovered that he heralded from the lost line of Slytherin, the last Heir of the Gaunt family still sound of mind and strong of magic. He was not as muggleborn as he thought he was, and suddenly every pureblood was attempting to earn his good graces, and his bloodline. Tom had learned very quickly to find danger in even the most comely of smiles, and softest of eyes; just as he had come to learn trust in even the iciest and gruffest of scowls, and honour in even the most surly of individuals.

His instinct for people was almost unnatural, even for a magic user.

He knew this person was focused on  _ him _ . He knew this person was  _ studying _ him. Learning about him. Would not be  _ distracted _ from him. Was  _ obsessed _ . But he also knew this person didn’t  _ want _ to harm him. Not that he wouldn’t, but that he didn’t wish to. Which made understanding him so much more interesting and complicated and Tom wanted to crack him open and learn  _ everything _ about him. And he hadn’t even managed to learn the man’s name yet.

Well, there was always playing the part of saviour - it would be easy to pass through some of the shadier areas of Knockturn and agitate some gutter trash, confound them into the stranger’s direction and then return to ‘rescue’ him from his attackers. It wouldn’t garner him a  _ Life Debt _ , useful things that they are, not when he was the one who put his little stalker in that position, but he would be the only one who knew that, wouldn’t he? 

Smirking a little to himself, he raised his drink and took a small mouthful, examining his little stalker’s reflection in the glass. The magic wrapped around him would prevent Tom from perceiving him with his own eyes, but it didn’t prevent him from seeing his reflection or shadow. 

His little stalker had quite the pretty face.

Even as grumpy as it was, glaring at him from above an empty bowl of stew, slowly twirling a knife, point down onto the table. Such horrible manners. Not quite a threat but not quite an idle consideration either. 

Hmmm… yes, today. He would like his answers today.

He made a show of checking his pocket watch, being surprised and annoyed, and then quickly getting to his feet and making his leave, striding purposefully out of the Leaky Cauldron and into Diagon Alley proper. No one dared stumble into his path, and it was only a few seconds before he heard the sound of footsteps trotting after him and had to suppress a smirk as he glanced in a shop window. His little stalker having to jog lightly to keep up with his longer purposefully fast stride, petulant scowl written across his face. Tom could almost  _ see _ the words ‘long-legged bastard’ written on his face as he struggled to keep up.

Tom smirked like the bastard he was (marriage under the influence of love potions was not legal, apparently, so he could not claim any of his father’s estate, not that he wanted it once he’d met the pathetic waste of flesh) and made a sharp veer into Knockturn Alley where all manner of dark ilk liked to lurk, his stalker was unsurprise, a strange light of vicious triumph and anger on his face when he caught sight of it in a grimy window as he passed.

Most purebloods were thin, weedy, oft unhealthy, relying so entirely on their magic that they would be out of breath from a simple jog or power walk taking them from the Leaky to Knockturn. Tom was not so weak, nor so reliant on any one thing. He learned the hard way at Hogwarts that if he lost his wand, he was helpless, so he made a point to learn how to defend himself even without one. Soldiers were keen to teach if one knew how to butter them up, alcohol, cigarettes, occasional sweets from his ration book that Tom didn’t much care for, and it netted him more than enough boxing lessons to break Lestrange’s nose, knock two teeth out, and dislocate his jaw the next time the pustule sought to hex him after charms. 

And it did wonders for his physique, which certainly none of his former lovers complained of, and he certainly couldn’t complain about as he sent the usual hags, peddlers, and troublemakers of the alley scattering before him. Their instincts rightfully identifying him as a threat without ever knowing his identity as he headed down past Borgin and Burkes’ and veered into an alleyway he knew often played home to a number of unsavouries. 

Several swift stinging charms, a confundus, and a hovering charm saw him safely to the roof to watch the unfolding chaos as his little stalker swept around the corner and  _ right _ into the  _ finite _ that Tom had left for him. And the numerous pissed off thugs.

It shouldn’t have been as amusing as it was to see the sheer mental hiccup his little stalker suffered as all of his concealment charms shattered, and left him seemingly  _ popping _ into existence in the middle of Knockturn Alley. He looked rather like a startled cat.

Tom wondered how long it would take before he had to step in and rescue his little stal-

He boggled as the wizard tore them apart seemingly without even the slightest bit of effort. As easily as he would have swept everything from his desk in a single move, with a single spell. The thugs all dropped like puppets with their strings cut, not dead, just unconscious.

That magic. Complimentary Magic. The one ‘true’ sign amongst magicals that pointed towards the idea of ‘Soulmates’.

“Ah,” Tom breathed, understanding settling comfortably in the back of his mind as the motivations of his little stalker suddenly became painfully clear. “He’s in love with me.”

* * *

But how to catch his little stalker, he wondered.

The young man was very much akin to a cat, scruffy and semi-feral, remarkably alike to those dirty creatures he often found prowling the backstreets looking for rats or scraps as a teenager. The ones who had lost their homes or families to bombs and grown wary of the world, of feral dogs, angry soldiers, mean drunks, and hungry mouths. Yes… with those exquisite green eyes and that scruffy mop of black hair, he was very much like one of those half-starved alley cats. And just as skittish evidently. Despite months of following and studying him, he had yet to even  _ attempt _ to make contact, to approach, even with their complimentary magic likely humming away in the back of his mind - as it did now for Tom now he knew what it was he was feeling.

Such a strangely comforting resonance of magic, he wanted to know how it would feel up close.

He was quite distracted from his work that day, distant and absent minded as he handled his paperwork, working as the Head of International Magical Cooperation Division was, what he felt, his best chance of getting into a good standing to run for Minister of Magic. He would already be afforded a Wizengmot seat due to his bloodline, but he refused to use something he had not  _ earned _ yet, only once he had finished at least a single term as Minister would he consider a position in the Wizengmot. If only to rub it into the faces of everyone present that he earned his place because he was suited for it, that blood meant  _ nothing _ , and their stupid stubborn desire to cling to such asinine concepts as blood purity were foolish at best, destructive at worst. 

By the  _ third _ time he had considered leaving a bowl of milk out for his little stalker (just to see how he would react) he knew that today was a lost cause and he would not be getting any meaningful work done. He packed himself up and headed back home to the muggle manor he had claimed for himself some years ago. It had been left derelict and empty for decades, the price tag was unreasonable for such a property but he paid for it anyway, and then magically removed all traces of it from the estate agent. He fixed it up quite nicely if he did say so himself. He had no staff, no house-elves, just a handful of portraits he found intellectually entertaining and despite being a manor, the property was small enough to clean by himself - he need only throw a few charms around now and again.

Which was how he knew, immediately upon stepping out of the floo, that someone else had been there.

And he had a fair idea who.

How interesting.

His little stalker managed to get through his wards without setting them off. That took  _ skill _ as well as power. It also took familiarity with the magic of the one casting the wards. Could this be perhaps why he hadn’t approached yet? He was getting a feel for Tom’s magic in order to do so privately in a place where he would be more comfortable? How considerate of his little stalker - 

Whoooo had turned his drawing room upside down and not put a single sheet of parchment back where he found it.

It looked like someone had cast a hurricane hex in there. 

Medusa’s portrait was crooked - his  _ safe! _

“I’m sorry Tom, I didn’t get a look at the intruder’s face,” the snake haired woman sighed as he pushed her into the right position again.

“I have an idea who it was. Did he take anything?” he asked, indignation and anger suddenly bubbling in the pit of his stomach. There was no need for his little stalker to steal from him, he need only  _ ask _ and Tom would provide. But Medusa shook her head, green serpents shifting and sliding across one another in an endless drifting pattern of emerald and jade curls, like smoky malachite.

“No. He took nothing from anywhere. I followed him through the house as he tore through every single warded space and loose floorboard. Whatever he was looking for, he didn’t find,” she explained with a deep sigh. “He even found his way into your private funds, he did nothing more than check for curses before dismissing it.”

Curses?

Ah. Yes. That made more sense.

“I have many enemies,” Tom concluded knowledgeably as he spelled the mess in his drawing room back to rights. Parchments flying into the air to restack themselves, books jumping back onto their shelves, inks crawling back into their bottles and returning to his desk. “It seems as though I have acquired a very shy if unneeded protector,” he concluded affectionately. 

He ignored the disbelieving gaze of Medusa’s painted eyes, and all her serpents, as he finished putting his office to rights. This explained things much more neatly. His little stalker hadn’t approached him yet because he was under the impression that he was  _ protecting _ Tom from one or more of his political rivals, a protector was useless if someone knew it was there, no doubt he was waiting for an attack in order to make his move. It would be a very neat and clean way of introducing himself, and had Tom not thought of exactly that scenario earlier during his lunch hour? 

He chuckled to himself and went to go and clean up the rest of the mansion, amused to find new hiding places as he went, his little stalker was certainly  _ thorough _ in his exploration for hazardous materials and curses. He truly was going to have to discover a way to approach his cute little stalker before whatever attack he anticipated came, it would not do to put himself on the back foot of owing a Life Debt to anyone, even someone he knew loved him so. 

The last thing he expected to find was one of the large tiles from his fireplace removed, and the discovered space filled with  _ muggle _ money from the previous owners. A cracked open wooden box with an overstuffed folder of banknotes from the 1700’s, and a frankly  _ ridiculous _ sum of  _ guinea crowns _ . These were antiques! Collectables! He could obtain far more money selling these to muggle collectors than he could melting them down for their silver! And his little stalker had obviously left them entirely behind for Tom’s attention, never taking a single coin despite the fact that it was clear he had no clue it had even been there despite his extensive remodelling of the manor.

“What a lovely gift,” he concluded smugly. And no less than he deserved. He would have to find an appropriate way to thank his little stalker later, perhaps he would use some of the money from the coin auctions to get him something nice, his clothing had been very out of place, perhaps he would give him better clothing. Yes. That was agreeable.

* * *

“Aurors have no idea who it was, sir,” Prewitt admitted unhappily as they stood in the doorway of his ransacked office, “We can confirm nothing went missing, but we don’t have a single lead on who it was. All of the secure documents have been rifled through, this is a massive security breach. It’s going to set us back  _ months _ ,” the man lamented angrily.

Tom couldn’t even be annoyed.

His little stalker had struck again, investigating and thoroughly examining his office for anything threatening with the single minded devotion of a niffler after shiny things. Tom could feel the lingering touches of the stranger’s magic on a few items, diagnostic charms, scanning charms, various curse-breaking techniques to look for dark magic, even a number he recognised as used by aurors. His little stalker was certainly skilled and knowledgeable. He was truly going to have to get hold of this young man.

“Well, no use leaving it all over the floor if the aurors are finished,” the halfblood declared easily enough as he drew his wand and sent everything back to where it belonged. “Back to work Prewitt, the aurors have done what they can here, time for us to do the same.”

And plan how he was going to catch a very skittish kitty.

* * *

In the end, he kept it simple.

He went for his usual lunchbreak at the Leaky Cauldron, sat in his usual seat, and waited for his cute little stalker to take his own. Then. When he was distracted, Tom flicked a finite at him, got up, and joined him at his own table while he sat frozen and wary, those lovely green eyes flicking between Tom and the rest of the patrons in the bar before narrowing on him once more.

“Can I help you?” he asked, his voice was rough and unfriendly, his grip white knuckled and nervous on his utensils and his whole body had gone tense, like a string drawn tight.

He chuckled, “Well, you are certainly trying to, aren’t you?” he teased as he gestured for Tom the barman to bring his food to him at his current table, the barkeeper glanced to his company, eyebrow arching and then he grinned, surreptitiously giving him a thumbs up once he was out of eyesight of his little stalker. Both he and the barman had initially bonded over their shared first names and how much they both hated them, both named for their fathers’, though Tom’s resentment stemmed from the deadbeat who left his mother to die, while the barman held no resentment, just annoyance at being just another Tom in a long line of them. They weren’t the best of friends, but they were friends, and Tom the barman always kept his eye out on him to make sure no one tried to slip anything into his food or drinks or started trouble in his establishment. The Leaky was neutral territory, free from all blood feuds or political alignments - it was the gateway and such things were sacred, or as close to in their culture as it could get.

He smirked charmingly at him, “Might I know the name of my cute little stalker?” 

He went red, and spluttered, covering up his embarrassment and flattery at being caught and then spoken to with faux anger, “C-cute?!”

“Like a frightened little alleycat,” he cooed mockingly, despite being absolutely serious. “Following me everywhere but too scared to get close, hissing and spitting once noticed.” His little stalker growled, embarrassed, but Tom was charmed. He was surprisingly expressive, and up close he was much more interesting to look at. There was a scar on his forehead, and the material he wore was machine made, thus muggle. But of no make or style he himself knew. His accent was also English, but again, no region he was familiar with. Not that he had been everywhere in the country or cared enough to identify every accent that appeared every fifty miles.

“Well? Might I know your name, or shall I start calling you Kitty since calling you my cute little stalker would raise some eyebrows?” he teased playfully, smiling as charmingly at him as possible. The resonance of their complimentary magic was like climbing into a hot bath at the end of a hard day, warm and comforting and it made him wonder why he would ever want to leave its presence again in his life. 

“...Harry,” his cute little stalker ground out. Truly? 

“Seems as though we have both been lumbered with ill-fitting names, no matter.” He took a sip of his wine, savouring the bitter taste and how well it went with his stew. Mmm. If he had not found Harry he might very well have attempted to marry Tom purely for his cooking. If he didn’t already know it was actually Gully the house-elf’s. He glanced up, catching the drawn out stare of his dining companion and smirked at him, “I know I am a marvel to look at but you should focus on your food before it goes cold,” he pointed out. Satisfaction, pride, and amusement surging as his cute little stalker went pink and scowled furiously before turning his attention back to his food as though it had done him a personal wrong.

They ate in silence, though Tom took his time, savouring both the food and his cute little stalker’s magic to their fullest (hmm… it may take a little more than he previously anticipated to stop thinking of Harry in such terms. But really, a name like that did not suit in the slightest). Harry finished his meal quickly and spent the rest of his time alternatively glaring at Tom and watching the entrances and exits like bodyguard.

Tom had always known his magic veered more towards the Dark Arts, a remnant he believed, of his Gaunt ancestry. Not one he wished to entertain. And while he held no foolish beliefs that Dark was Evil and Light was Good, he did understand that a lot of what was considered ‘dark’ was labelled such due to political reasons often lost to time. Much of what fell under the umbrella of ‘Dart Arts’ were simply emotionally driven magics, they required the caster to feel certain emotions or have certain intentions to be truly effective - part of why the  _ crucio _ curse was considered the peak of Dark Arts, and why it was an Unforgivable without justification was that to cast it properly one had to  _ want _ to cause pain, to desire it, to  _ enjoy _ inflicting it. It was very much a sadist’s spell, a cruelty and an evil born of wars generations past where it should have  _ stayed _ . Tom’s magic, despite his only ever having skirted fleeting touches with the Dark Arts, those truly evil spells, and even then only in his research to find counters for them, had remarkably dark magic. Cold and suffocating. He likened it to living shadow, a suffocating velvet darkness that covered and obscured and grasped everything that was his with jealous claws.

Harry’s magic was his (near) equal and perfect opposite. Like sunlight, warm and bright and golden. Like a candle flame or a hot bath. It was pure pleasure to feel, to sink into, and he had no idea how much he had sprawled it out. Tom would have to teach him how to rein it in, control it, it was absolutely indecent to allow anyone else access to this feeling, not when it was his.

He set his knife and fork down, taking a moment to sip his wine as Harry straightened and faced him properly, that scrutiny, his intense focus, right where it belonged. On him.

He smirked at the young man, “How should we handle this, my cute little stalker?” he asked smoothly, enjoying the furious blush that coloured his pale cheeks. “Weeks, if not months, of following me at all hours of the day. Breaking first into my home and ransacking it for cursed items, and then my office. Sliding through my wards as though they weren’t even there. I must say, this much time and effort for my sake. I am incredibly flattered.”

“Don’t be,” his little stalker hissed. Tom could almost imagine the lashing black tail and folded back ears as he was scowled at from the otherside of the table. 

He chuckled, “Oh, I am all the same. Many people have pursued me over the years, but very few have done so with even half of the skill or dedication you have displayed. And then there is your magic.” He has to stop there, feeling it pulse with heat and fire and  _ oh _ to feel it on his skin, he wanted to wrap it in his own and sink into him - but he wasn’t about to do something so vulgar in a public location. 

“What of it?” the young man demanded defensively, bristling uncertainly. 

“Marry me.”

His stalker blinked, mouth opening slightly in disbelief.

He just smirked at him, “Your dedication is incredibly gratifying, and your magic is lovely. You have most assuredly won me over. Marry me. I assure you, I will be a very good husband.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't KNOOOOOOOOW. I blame reighost entirely for this!
> 
> But seriously, I don't - he's such a himbo, I don't even know how this happened it's just....... *FRANTIC GESTURES AT TOM* HE HAS THE SOCIAL SKILLS OF A CANTALOUPE!!!!! Harry's actively plotting to stab him in the spine if he so much as sniffs dark magic or plans for world domination and Tom thinks he wants in his pants I - I - how did I even write this kind of mental dissonance? This absolutely DUMBASSERY??????
> 
> Stick around if you wanna watch this shit crash and burn even more.


	2. Chapter 2

…

His ears must have been broken.

_ Really _ broken.

Voldemort had not just asked him to marry him.

“ - thinking of a Spring Wedding. The symbolism of new beginnings and what not. We shall have to do so outside, I swore long ago I would never set foot in another Church for fear of setting it on fire. One can only take so much prattle about things they have no care for. A nice garden would do, I should think, yes, the druid would be much more appreciative of such. Orchards are supposedly good symbolism for ‘fruitful’ marriages. And a spring wedding, green would be a good colour. Do you have any family I should be speaking to? Harry?” Voldemort continued to waffle, in love with the sound of his own voice, utterly ignorant to the plentiful messy and violent deaths and murders Harry was imagining regarding his sticky end.

“All dead,” he informed the man succinctly, the acidic reminder that he had been the one to cast the curse burning the tip of his tongue but untrue as of the moment. So he swallowed it down, grimacing in pain all the while. 

Voldemort reached out and cupped his cheek, making Harry freeze in a mixture of sheer horror and utter confusion, “I am sorry to hear that, Harry,” the Dark Lord lamented, sounding so utterly sincere that anyone who didn’t know he’d split his soul enough times to have his own Quidditch team would have believed it. His eyes were  _ red _ for Merlin’s sake. How had no one twigged he was up to his nutsack in dark magic yet?

He slapped the man’s hand away, “Take your pity and shove it,” he snapped, heart hammering in his throat. Just what the fuck was Voldemort trying to pull here? “And I never agreed to anything!” he added furiously.

Voldemort only leaned back, one dark eyebrow raising.

“Do you truly have a reason to oppose?” he asked, the perfect picture of politely bemused.

Accusations boiled on his tongue - none of which he could prove.

He had been following Voldemort since he’d first arrived in the Summer of 1960, and had yet to find  _ anything _ incriminating. Oh he didn’t expect it to be  _ quick _ . Voldemort hadn’t survived two campaigns as a Dark Lord and successfully managed to take over England at least once by being  _ sloppy _ or careless. Harry just hadn’t expected it to be so difficult, not when he was seemingly able to stumble on the Dark Lord’s plots with insultingly pathetic ease as a teenager. But he guessed that with the completion of the Prophesy, Fate no longer had any reason to make his life easy, and his investigation had turned up nothing. Even his ransacking of the man’s home was pointless, he didn’t even have so much as a Blood Quill or a dodgy tax record (and Harry was not above doing an Al Capone and getting Tom in Azkaban for shitty bookkeeping).

Even the locations of the other Horcruxes were empty, the cave of inferi was just that, a cave. Nothing save tidal rock pools and shrimp. Malfoy Manor was stuffed with cursed artefacts but Abraxas Malfoy had nothing of value that Harry particularly cared about either - even if he did drop off a tip about the hidden vault beneath the drawing room. Bellatrix Black hadn’t even  _ started _ Hogwarts yet so she wouldn’t have anything of value. And despite spending three  _ days _ in the Room of Hidden Things after breaking into Hogwarts he hadn’t been able to locate the Diadem of Ravenclaw. 

But if he married him… he would have all the time in the world to find his proof… and where he’d hidden his Horcruxes.

And  _ this _ Voldemort didn’t know him, what he was capable of. Admittedly this one wouldn’t underestimate him to such fatal levels as the previous, but he also would have no idea that they were predestined Equals, that Harry was  _ just _ as powerful as he was, and probably a lot more dangerous. He had been raised to fight after all, and for all of Voldemort’s knowledge in the Dark Arts, he wasn’t a fighter. Not at this stage in his development. By all rights, he should have been in Albania, exploring the Necromantic arts and various black curses.  _ This _ Voldemort didn’t have a single clue that Harry knew of his Horcruxes.

He grit his teeth.

Was he really going to go through with this?

More to the fact could he even pretend to - 

Voldemort chuckled, jarring him out of his spiralling thoughts, “I promise you this isn’t a dream, I am aware that this must seem too good to be true, but I am quite sincere. Your earnestness has managed to move me,” he promised, pouring on enough charm that Harry felt greasy and a little ill just listening to it.

Did people actually believe this?

Enough to actually give him fucking money?

“…Earnestness…” he echoed flatly, for lack of anything to actually say to such a… declaration.

Voldemort nodded seriously, leaning back and crossing one of those annoyingly long legs of his and folding his arms to stroke his chin, “Indeed,” the man declared smugly, ignorant to how tempting it was to just ram the serrated steak knife that a much younger Tom had given him earlier directly into his bellybutton. “Your determination to protect me from my political rivals was touching.” 

His what now?

His who?

“As I said before, very few have pursued me with such ceaseless dedication. And what better gift can I give to show my gratitude beyond my very own hand in marriage!” he declared with a pleased sigh.

Was this how a brain aneurysm felt? It felt like he was having a brain aneurysm.

“Such devotion is surely deserving of an equal return, no?” he asked slyly, winking one of those red eyes at him, smirking suggestively between his long fingers.

Harry was pretty sure he felt the very fragile thread of his sanity snap at that precise minute.

He got to his feet and walked out of the Leaky Cauldron, apparating as soon as he reached the back alley, only distantly aware of his name being called before his ears were popping and filled with the sound of birds and rustling leaves. He was distantly aware that he hadn’t even paid for his meal, just got up and left Voldemort with the bill.

Little Whinging wasn’t nearly the suburban paradise it was when he was a child, in fact, the majority of the houses hadn’t even been built yet. So when he’d accessed the Potter vaults, he’d removed only enough money for a tent and some food, everything else he already had in his mokeskein pouch that Hermione had enchanted for him, and then he’d pitched his tent in the unoccupied field behind the cycle track and warded it to be ignored by muggles.

He ducked in, kicking his shoes off in the entryway and staggering to his single lonely little bed and collapsing face first onto it before drawing his legs up, and curling into a ball.

That… had not gone the way he thought it would, and if he’d had to stay there a moment more, listening to that revolting bile, he might have done something violent, and then it would have put everyone in the Leaky Cauldron at risk. Starting a fight with a Dark Lord in a populated location was not intelligent, and it was probably why he had confronted him there in the first place, to hold everyone there hostage while he spewed his useless bullshit at him.

Marriage. Marriage to Voldemort. What the ever loving fuck was he going on about?

Voldemort had no interest in marriage. 

And if he ever had, it would have only been to further his political endeavours. Harry didn’t understand what kind of game he was playing here. There was no way the man knew he was a Potter, had even the slightest inkling that he was connected to the Peverels’, or the Blacks’. As far as Voldemort knew, Harry had been investigating him, broken into his  _ house _ \- ah. He’d gotten through Voldemort’s wards without the man ever being aware of it until he came home to the mess that Harry hadn’t had a chance to clean up, he panicked when he heard the floo go and fled immediately before he could put everything back where it belonged.

Voldemort wanted to know how he got through the wards, would probably want to figure out how to get through them in the same way. And if he couldn’t… well, he would have a husband who could at that point. Harry was a resource, either to learn from or utilise. 

He sighed, staring at his fingernails in the bright light of the autumn sun through the tent canvas. Why the hell was Voldemort in England? He was supposed to be in Albania. He wasn’t supposed to return to England for another ten years, until his  _ parents _ were in Hogwarts. His - oh… oh yeah…

This year…

This was the year they were all born.

His mum, his dad, Sirius…

They would be little babies. Absolutely helpless. Fragile.  _ Vulnerable _ .

His mum… deserved to live longer than her twenty years.

They all deserved to live longer than they got, live better than they did. No war, no fear, no pain, no  _ betrayal _ . Peter Pettigrew was a good friend for good times, not a friend for the bad times. Sirius deserved better than the Blacks. And Remus deserved better than Greyback.

He rolled onto his back, watching the play of light as the trees moved outside, the dappled sunlight dancing across the canvas overhead.

“Looks like I’m getting married.”

* * *

It sat bitter in his tongue, sour in his stomach, and he felt both sickly and restless with it as he sat in the Leaky Cauldron waiting for Voldemort’s  _ lunchbreak _ the following afternoon. He tried to talk himself out of it no less than eighteen times, he’d suffered some of the worst nightmares of the last ten years that previous night and spent over an hour violently disassociating in the shower as he tried to stave off a panic attack until he stiffened his resolved and shored himself up.

Yes.

He was going to get married to Voldemort. And he was going to  _ use _ this opportunity to dig into every single one of his crimes, gather the evidence of it, and then when he had absolutely unassailable proof, every single Death Eater’s name and residence, he was going to present it to the Ministry - and go  _ hunting _ .

If he could keep his parents alive by doing this, if he could stop Voldemort’s first Rise… it was a small price to pay. He had already given his life, his childhood, his sanity, what was his hand in marriage all things considered? He would just have to be careful about his vows and whatever contracts he signed to make sure he didn’t fuck himself over. He knew that the marriage vows Snape’s mother spoke fucked her over and prevented her from escaping with him when his father turned violent, that whole ‘ _ love, honour, and obey _ ’ thing took some rather disturbing connotations when magical vows were involved.

He completely missed the man coming in, too busy stuck with his dark thoughts, glaring at the table until there was a rustle and he turned his head - almost  _ into _ the bouquet of flowers suddenly thrust at his face.

Dahlias, wrapped in violet and myrtle flowers, and framed with tendrils of ivy. It was a very beautiful bouquet, the kind that Aunt Petunia would have displayed in the front room, and that Uncle Vernon would only shell out for on big wedding anniversaries or when he needed to make a  _ big _ apology for something.

Harry looked up in bewilderment, feeling something inside himself actually  _ die _ from sheer horror at the fact it was fucking  _ Voldemort _ giving  _ him _ flowers. A bouquet of flowers from a Dark Lord. Sirius would be spinning in his non-existent grave. They could have hooked his corpse up to a generator and powered half of England alone at that speed (Dumbledore couldn’t say or do shit given his  _ thing _ with Grindelwald in Harry’s opinion. At least this marriage was one of strictly ulterior motives right across the board).

“I must apologise for my hasty words the other day, Harry,” Voldemort blurted, looking perfectly flustered to any outside observers. “It let my mouth run away with me, an unfortunate problem I sometimes suffer with when excited.” As if he hadn’t thought thrice about every single word that came out of his mouth and its repercussions and results, as if his every facial expression weren’t carefully chosen and cultivated ahead of time.

Harry’s returning smile was strained with discomfort, he was never going to be able to sell this shit. “It’s… fine…” he managed to get out even as he collected the obviously meant for him flowers being shoved into his face. 

“It is not. Tom quite rightly told me off my hasty behaviour yesterday,” the Dark Lord admitted somewhat sheepishly. Harry felt like he was having another out of body experience, but the sharp scent of the violets and fresh cut ivy disabuses him of that comfort. “I understand that to have pursued so long and studied me and my life so intently you would have never expected any reciprocation on my part, and I overwhelmed you with the suddenness of my acceptance to the point where you needed to retreat. Please accept these as a token of my apologies, and proof of my sincerity.” He still hadn’t actually let go of the flowers.

...Sincerity?

“Sincerity?” Harry echoed faintly.

Voldemort nodded seriously, his earnest expression rearranging itself into something more serious, “Yes. My sincerity in marrying you.”

...This was why he was there. 

“I - see. That’s… thank you for your consideration,” he managed to choke out through a too hot flush and too cold chill. He felt sticky and clammy with adrenaline, his tongue too thick and clumsy for his mouth all of a sudden. “I am - sorry for running off yesterday - without paying,” he said falteringly. Voldemort still hadn’t let go of the flowers. It was getting awkward now. Harry let his arms drop and the man didn’t notice in the slightest.

“Nothing I couldn’t handle,” he assured him. Flowers still held practically at his face.

Harry hummed, lost for words. How did he agree to this marriage thing in a way that didn’t sound… off? He didn’t want Voldemort to realise that he - fuck it, he probably already knew that Harry  _ wasn’t _ in any way romantically interested in him at all. “When do we do this?” he asked, voice cracking only a little with horror. Forget England, Sirius could power Europe with how fast he would spin in his grave. Harry kind of wanted to join him, just spin the fuck around and get the fuck out of there.

The Dark Lord  _ finally _ removed the damn flowers from his face and sat down opposite, charming (oily) smile hitched in place, red eyes glittering maliciously on him. “Spring is a very auspicious time. Symbolic. I was thinking the Spring Equinox. Twentieth of March.”

Dates had power. That was why Voldemort always timed his first attacks on Halloween, and aimed for the Summer Solstice for their culmination. He always used magical numbers, and tried to work in rituals, even minor ones, into his plans. The whole Triwizard Tournament itself had been a ritual with its culmination in the Little Hangleton graveyard, the magic of Harry’s triumphs throughout it all had gone into giving his ritual the power to create his own body according to Bill’s research. It was why all Harry had to show for the whole thing was a thousand galleons and PTSD.

It would give Harry five months - four and a half really - to find proof of Voldemort’s crimes and present it to the Ministry before he ended up married to the man. Okay. He’d done harder things with smaller timeframes before. However. Would Voldemort let him into his council, his home, without marriage vows on the table? Harry had gone through it the auror way, by the book, investigation and deduction, hunting for the truth  _ physically _ , and it hadn’t done him a blind lick of good. It was only too easy for Voldemort to hide what he was doing if Harry was still living in his tent half the country away. He needed to be closer, he needed to be  _ present _ , almost at all times, in order to make sure he wasn’t missing anything.

He might have smiled like there was nothing in his skull but elevator music and stray hairs but Harry knew better.

“Not - sooner?” he forced himself to ask through numb lips, surprised when his voice sounded almost normal, airy, as if it didn’t actually matter to him when this wedding was going to be. It felt like he was going to vomit. He would have never made it as a spy. He drank his water, hoping that the act of swallowing it down would force down his bile and disgust along with it.

Voldemort blinked at him for a moment before he leaned back and rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Hmm… sooner… Very well. Agreed. Now.”

He spat his mouthful of water at the wall, “ _ Not that soon! _ ” he wheezed, coughing violently. No wait - the sooner this was done with the sooner it would be over with!

Voldemort ignored him as he began to cough up what felt like half of a lung.

“I will have to call the rest of the day off. It isn’t much time for a grand ceremony but I’m sure I can throw together something quick. Hmm, better call Myr first to make venue arrangements. Then to Gringotts to get the money out and have your key to my vault made. Now… what am I forgetting…” he wondered, humming thoughtfully before beaming up at the bar, “Ah yes, Tom, next round for everyone is on me!” he called smugly.

“What fer?!”

“Today is my wedding day!”

Harry wheezed.

He couldn’t do this.

He bolted, wheezing in a way he wasn’t quite sure was just water down the wrong pipe now until he managed to apparate away and stagger into his tent, having to drop down and lean his whole body forward to help whatever was irritating his lungs come out of it.

He was just going to have to figure out how to get hold of incriminating evidence without  _ ever _ getting near Voldemort again. Every little thing inside him was rebelling against this stupid idea. The stupid idea which was the only one he  _ had _ to save people’s lives!

He growled at himself, hitting his forehead against the floor of his tent.

He needed to Gryffindor up and actually do this. 

He would file for divorce as soon as he had his evidence and Voldemort was awaiting trial. It wasn’t a big deal. It was only temporary. As long as he was careful with the vows then it would be fine. He - right. Yes. Step one. He needed to write some air-tight wedding vows that would make SURE he retained his freedom and was able to arrest Voldemort if he needed to, all the while ensuring the privacy of his mind. Harry had never truly made great strides in Occlumency, it turned out he was much better suited to Legilimency and typically responded to mental attacks with one of his own out of sheer reflex - hence his viewing of Snape’s memories on occasion during his fifth year. If Voldemort legilimencied him, chances were Harry wouldn’t even feel it, not if it was him. He was so used to having a piece of the man in his mind that it wouldn’t even register to him if he did so again now that the Horcrux wasn’t around to get agitated by the presence of his magic.

He sighed and got to his feet, but enough about that. He needed to write those vows out. He took a seat at the rather dismal wooden kitchen table and summoned parchment and quill to him. His little tent was quite comfortable for a single person, about the same size as the Dursleys’ living room (sans kitchen/dining room), with a small offside for the toilet and bathroom. It suited him fine as he dipped his quill and began to write.

And stopped.

Right. Well.

What key points were there?

No harming him, mentally or physically. No invading his mind (not his privacy because he was going to be doing that to Voldemort and if these were vows then he was going to have to speak them himself). No ‘Love, Honour, or Obey’ shit whatsoever. Um…

Harry didn’t know any other wedding vows beyond the standard Christian church ones even though he knew there were other vows. He needed to research this. He was going to have to go to a muggle library. Or… well he couldn’t really talk to anyone in the magica- Hogwarts. He could sneak into the Room of Requirements at Hogwarts and get a whole frickin’ book of them. Right. 

He sighed deeply. First stop, muggle library. He would sneak into the school later tonight.

When he finally had an idea of the typical vows then he would know what to account for and what to work around and what to include. 

His stomach growled.

But first food. 

What muggle money did he have? He’d drop by the bakery on his way to the library. He was craving a sausage roll, or a cheese and bacon turnover if they were still doing breakfast foods.

Making sure he was dressed at least  _ somewhat _ appropriately, he left his little tent and walked to the town centre, fighting off the urge to gawk like a tourist at how  _ old timey _ and  _ different _ everything looked as he headed to the no-longer-quite-so-ancient bakery that he remembered closing back when he was a small child to make way for the Sainsburies superstore. Aunt Petunia would take both him and Dudley past on their way home from Infants’ school and she would get Dudley the biggest stickiest iced bun she could find, and when the lady behind the counter asked what Harry wanted, she would get him the cheapest thing. An icecream cone with a scoop of marshmallow covered in sprinkles. It was something Harry had to eat quickly otherwise Dudley would snatch it off him when he was done with his bun.

The Crusty Cottage was a new establishment, the front window full of freshly made bread, steak filled slices, pies, sweet treats. Harry’s mouth began to water as soon as he walked in. And in memory of his childhood, he got the biggest stickiest iced bun  _ and _ a marshmallow cone, and ate both of them on the bench outside the post office, watching the pigeons and the children as they raced through them and sent the poor birds scattering.

Finished with licking his fingers clean he headed to the library and found himself stuck, blushing furiously as he tried to tell the older lady behind the counter what he was looking for. 

Her excited gasp made him want to sink into the floor once he managed to choke out what he was looking for. She was quick to look up the best thing for him - the library was a very different place in 1960 compared to 1990, there were no computers for one, and the whole book index was on little cards in long draws. There were also a  _ lot _ more sections about making things he realised as he looked at all the collected magazines about sewing and making clothes. He wondered if it was a hold-over from the war when all the factories were for making bullets and equipment and people had to make do with what they could get hold of. Wasn’t there that whole thing about people making their daughter’s dresses out of flour sacks, so the company started using prettier fabric for it?

Thankfully, after finding him a few books, the lady left him to his own devices on a table hidden in the back corner so he wouldn’t  _ die _ of absolute mortification as he drew his parchment and quill out to take notes.

There… was a lot of talk about god. And love.

Two things he was pretty certain would not be a thing in this marriage.

Faithfulness featured too, and ‘being true’ to one another. For ‘better or worse’.

How was he going to write a decent wedding vow if ninety percent of what was featured didn’t apply to him or Voldemort?

Some of these things also mentioned forgiveness and Harry -  _ really _ wasn’t ready to forgive Voldemort for any of his shit. At seventeen, fresh from his fucking  _ death bed _ he had been. He had thought he’d seen the worst of what Voldemort had done, the worst he was capable of, thought that he was the one who had been the most  _ scarred _ by what the man had done. He had been wrong. And in the years that followed as crime and cruelty and  _ abomination _ surfaced again, and again, and again, he found that otherworldly acceptance of the man’s wrong doing withering and dying a poisoned pathetic death. 

He was going to have to check Hogwarts, or write them entirely from scratch himself.

Actually, that sounded more likely to be honest. Ugh.

He sighed and dragged a hand through his hair.

Okay. First line. Easy enough.

Second line… ‘do solemnly take’ was reasonable enough, better avoid things like ‘swearing’ and ‘vow’ just in case. 

He would not enter into his mind - better pretty that line up, make it fancy or someshit. 

Harm… he would not seek to consciously harm Voldemort either mentally or physically, or willingly arrange for such to befall him. 

He would… work as his equal for the betterment of the magical world? Voldemort would definitely take  _ that _ a certain way even though Harry was going to mean it entirely the opposite - he had seen first had what the Pureblood agenda gave them, the deaths it caused, the destruction, he would work for the betterment of the magical world, not the purebloods. Voldemort didn’t think any further than himself or his followers, it wouldn’t occur to him that Harry meant something else entirely.

What else… what else…

He wouldn’t go out and fight for him, that was an absolute no. So… he would… provide a home, yes. He would - he didn’t have a house but if he made it fancy enough, ‘if you should provide a house, I will provide a home’, right, that sounded good. Harry was fine with cooking and cleaning, he hadn’t seen signs of a house-elf, no magic of one, which meant he wouldn’t have competition, or watchers beyond the portraiture. 

Oooh, he would work to ‘right his wrongs and support his good deeds’. Eat that one Voldemort, he was going to publicly declare he would fuck his shit up and there wasn’t a fucking thing he could do to stop him. And… uphold his family legacy? Harry had a legacy he could be proud of, and he was proud of it. Voldemort on the other hand… loathed his family, both muggle and magical. But he was proud of his ancestral legacy. Yeah. Harry could put that in without concern. 

Hmm… how to close it now… 

It was basically a ‘joke’ marriage, and a part of him wanted to throw in a smidge of the Marauders in there, if only to acknowledge them in what he was trying to consider a massive prank against the Dark Lord. But at the same time, he didn’t want his memories of them to be tainted despite what occurred later. 

He would… commit himself to these words and try to be the best…  _ husband _ he could be.

Okay, that sounded reasonable and it covered the majority of his bases.

Oh no! Better throw in  _ something _ in there about their belongings and their fortunes being theirs to be kept, and only what is shared between them being a gift or some such rot. It would keep the man’s sticky fingers out of Harry’s artefacts and since Harry had no interest in keeping the horcruxes beyond destroying them, it didn’t matter to him. He would just have a little ‘whoopsy’ with the swor-

He needed to deal with the Basilisk. 

_ And _ Aragog in the forest.

Sorry Hagrid, but keeping man eating spiders the size of cottages next to a school of children was an astronomically bad idea. 

He sighed.

One thing at a time, Potter.

Oh fuck. He was going to have to use his full name at this thing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Dahlias, wrapped in violet and myrtle flowers, and framed with tendrils of ivy** : Dahlias symbolise Good taste; Ivy Friendship, fidelity, & marriage (you can imagine which one Tom means); Myrtle Good luck and love in a marriage; and violet symbolises Loyalty, devotion, faithfulness, modesty. Basically, Tom shoved a bouquet in Harry's face telling him that he had good taste in choosing Tom as his marriage partner because he was so modest, loyal, and would be devoted to him as a husband. XDDD
> 
> Welcome back to the Dumbass Show. Now with Harry's POV going in _COMPLETELY THE OPPOSITE DIRECTION_.
> 
> Tom: <3 It's love.  
> Harry: He's fucking evil and if he sneezes wrong imma stab him.  
> Tom: <3 <3 <3
> 
> Your honour, I would like to submit to the courts that they are both, in fact, thick as pigshit.


	3. Chapter 3

Existence was pain, his throbbing head and rolling stomach, and Myrtle’s terrible upholstery.

“If you vomit on my couch again, you’re cleaning it up with your tongue, Tom,” his personal tormenter told him flatly as he groaned. “Drink. You’ll feel better.” A glass of water was set on the side table above his head by the absolute angel, his dearest and nearest greatest friend.

Tom didn’t remember an awful lot about yesterday. Or how he came to, yet again, be unconscious on Myrtle Warren’s terrible couch in nothing but his undergarments. It had been common enough after leaving Hogwarts that neither of them much blinked at the other’s partial nudity, it was just a body and really by this point neither of them thought anything about each other beyond sibling affection (at least Tom thought it was sibling affection, Myrtle could just enjoy torturing him for all he knew, she certainly did it enough).

“What did I do…?” he asked hoarsely because Myrtle knew, she  _ always _ knew.

His bestfriend threw herself onto her armchair with great amusement as he struggled to sit up out of the mountain of blankets he had somehow managed to dig himself into in order to get his glass of water and hang-over potion. She really was a godsend. Even when she was smirking at him in a way that foretold many hours of being teased and mocked and tormented later.

“Well. After your blushing bride to be fled the Leaky Cauldron, Barkeep Tom proceeded to beat you about the head with the flowers you bought but wouldn’t actually relinquish,” that explained the flower petals in his hair at least, oh blast it, did he not actually  _ hand them over _ to Harry? No he hadn’t, he had been too busy staring at those lovely eyes. “And then you asked the whole bar for advice, offering to pay them in alcohol for it, got absolutely blitzed, broke into my house again, and passed out in my knitting. You also threw up in the cat litter,” she added helpfully as Spock, her little black and white tomcat, jumped up onto the arm of the chair beside him to headbutt his shoulder and start purring.

Tom… remembered talking to Harry. Remembered the almost coquettish look on his face as he peered up at him through his eyelashes, something about… why the wedding wasn’t sooner? And then the coughing fit that picked up as soon as Tom declared that they would get married that day - yes, that was when he fled. Tom had declared a round for everyone at the Leaky because it was his wedding day as Harry coughed and then got to his feet and ran. Oh no, had he needed to go to St Mungos? He looked up at his bestfriend in horror and she arched an eyebrow at him judgmentally.

“Yes…?”

“Did he go to St Mungos? He was coughing.”

She snorted, “No. Barkeep said he swallowed his drink wrong when you declared your intent to marry  _ that day _ . And speaking of,” she loomed, “Why the hell didn’t you invite me?!”

He hid behind Spock who mrrped and started grooming his hair, “I was going to! I was even going to ask you to do the arrangements! You said you would!” he defended, “He ran away before I could!”

She sighed and flopped back, “And what did you expect? Barkeep said the guy was as flighty as a vet fresh from the frontline. You pushed way too hard and fast there, Casanova,” she mocked before shivering and pushing to her slipper clad feet. “Tea and toast. You, get washed and dressed, and my knitting better be put back to rights, you menace,” she declared, waving a threatening finger at him before vanishing out of the living room.

He sighed, pushing his face into Spock’s soft furry side. Thankfully the headache and unsettled stomach was fading away with the help of water and Myrtle’s potion.

Time to get up and face the day. 

He was going to have to go into the Ministry and make his apologies as well, how embarrassing. It sounded as though he completely skived off his afternoon. He would have to stay late and make the time up. No wait, he should still have time saved after dealing with that mess with the Polish Ministry.

Thankfully, despite having a largely muggle house, Myrtle’s bathroom was very magical indeed. She had fallen in love with the Hufflepuff dormitory bathrooms when she’d stayed the night with a girlfriend in her seventh year and vowed to have her own variation of the room when she had her own home. And with magic, it was more than possible. Tom sat himself down on one of the stools and got himself washed and clean, picking out all the flowers and stray bits of ivy from his hair morosely - that bouquet had been expensive and despite inheriting title and land (the latter of which he sold almost immediately), he had not inherited anything in the way of  _ money _ . Just a couple of historical trinkets that he was happy to put up to auction. His position as Head of the Department of International Relations was a very well paying one, but there was always going to be a little boy in second hand clothes, clutching a ration book that never seemed to be enough to fill his belly, wincing at every expenditure that wasn’t the absolute bare minimum.

He heard a burst of cackling from Myrtle outside and paused in the process of washing his hair, that was either good or bad, it was always hard to tell. He sighed and dropped his head beneath the water spray, if it was important, she would tell him when he sat down to breakfast, if it wasn’t, she would mock him for not knowing later on. 

Clean and feeling a lot more human, he ran several cleaning charms over his clothes, got dressed, and left the bathroom, cleaning the cat litter as he went, spelling her knitting back where it belonged, cleaning the couch and rearranging the pillows, before joining her in the kitchen where she was dressed in long dark blue robes, reading the newspaper and giggling, the table already set with toast, tea, orange juice, and both eggs and sausages. He really did love her, this absolute gremlin of a woman.

She of course waited until he had taken a mouthful of his orange juice to say, “You’re in the newspaper.”

He choked.

The grinning dark haired woman cheerfully presented him with page five of the Daily Prophet, the fairly sizable picture of himself attempting to drunkenly write something down in his tatty old everfull diary he got while in Hogwarts and never really could bring himself to replace. All around him were incredibly drunk witches and wizards. He sighed dismally. He looked like a mess. Hardly the dignified front he wanted to present to the world given his political aspirations, drunk at three o’clock in the afternoon.

She pulled it back to herself, giggling as she read, “The reception is positive, you got one of the good writers. Course, now the whole Wizarding World knows that you’re trying to get married to some no name wizard who keeps running away from you, there’s sympathy and concern, and a bit of scorn. Why  _ are _ you so determined? You’ve never shown interest in anyone like this before,” she pointed out, setting the paper down to look at him in all seriousness. Proving yet again why he made the right choice in befriending her all those years ago when Olive Hornby was becoming increasingly aggressive in her purist stances. 

Tom sighed, “He pursued me first,” he explained, “Poor thing is very shy. I don’t think he intended to let me know about his feelings whatsoever. He broke into both my house and my office at the Ministry just to check it over for curses, he’s been following me in public spaces for weeks now, and never even attempted to make contact before. Then I felt his magic, Myr, we have  _ Complimentary Magic _ ,” he told her desperately, watching as her eyes widened in surprise. “But I keep scaring him off. I only meant to reassure him that I was taking his feelings seriously but… I misstepped, and I’m still not entirely sure how.”

She caught his hand, giving his fingers a gentle squeeze, “We’ll figure it out, Tom. Calm down,” she soothed, squeezing his hand again before letting go. “Eat your breakfast. You’re going to have to deal with work and you ought not do it on an empty stomach. You get cranky when you’re hungry,” she reminded him as she began to spread raspberry preserve on her toast without looking at him. 

He huffed and dug into his food. She was quite right. Though ‘cranky’ was something of an understatement if one listened to his colleagues.

* * *

There were a number of memos waiting for him, Prewitt had handled the most urgent of them but there were a lot of things that required his oversight personally. Tom spent his morning playing catch up, information regarding the civil war in the Congo and the small number of British witches and Wizards caught up in the crossfire. There was also a number of missives from his contemporaries in MACUSA speaking about introductory arrangements between their two country leaders, both muggle and magical, after the Presidential Election - Nixon wouldn’t require it, but Mister Jackson, his American counterpart, was fairly certain that the man would not be sticking around for a second term.

There were suspicions of electoral fraud to the point where MACUSA were thinking of intervening. 

Tom wasn’t sure how he felt about magical interference with muggle elections, he most certainly frowned upon it, but he had been in this office long enough to have formed a number of connections in other Ministries, and much of what he had been told about President Nixon was  _ concerning _ . Nixon had been attempting to exert controlling pressure upon MACUSA and they had not been pleased by his interference. 

He sighed as he finished his last missive and sealed it. No doubt Nixon would be visited by the MACUSA’s equivalent of their UNSPEAKABLEs once he lost the election, and his memories of magic and the wizarding world would be carefully removed. Yes it would be easier just to kill the man, but that would cause its own problems down the line, especially if it were ever discovered, and MACUSA were nothing if not absurdly paranoid.

“Lunch time!” Myrtle’s voice cheered from the doorway, startling him into looking up from where he had been staring at his wax seal, lost in thought. She hadn’t bothered to change out of her lime-green healers robe, meaning that she would be returning to St Mungos when they were finished with their meal, but she had thrown a cloak over her shoulders so that meant they would  _ not _ be picnicking in his office again. 

“Where are we going?” he asked, getting to his feet and gathering his letters. May as well send them now. 

Because of the sheer weight of information that passed through each office pertaining to International Magical Cooperation, they didn’t bother with things like owls or floo networks, but instead had commissioned minor Vanishing Cabinets. Each cabinet was labelled with the country that its sister currently sat in, and all of them possessed a small ‘trigger’ charm that would turn its label red when there was something inside it. It would also turn the label black when its sister cabinet was wedged open and thus unable to take missives - after the whole thing with Grindelwald and Germany, it became necessary after the man sent them bottled nundu breath and murdered the previous Department head and three of his seconds. Prewitt was the only survivor and he managed to keep the department together  _ somehow _ , he turned down every promotion to the Head position and as soon as Tom had the time and experience needed, he practically  _ flung _ the role at him. As of this moment in time, there were twenty two countries with black labels and wedged open cabinets in his office. Twenty-two countries whose Ministries and foreign intelligence departments were a threat to England’s own. There was a reason he kept the entire communications hub in a separate heavily warded room.

“I was thinking the Leaky, hopefully we’ll be able to catch your blushing bride to be,” Myrtle’s voice floated to him as he opened up the various cabinets he needed to and set his missives in, closing and locking them securely until their labels turned red. She didn’t dare come into this room, just as Tom wouldn’t go into any of the administrative offices in St Mungos.

“Mm, sounds good.”

Hopefully his cute little stalker would be there.

They took the floo to the Leaky and Tom looked around eagerly for him, even casting a few discreet charms to detect him in case he was yet again in hiding but…

“He’s not here,” he muttered, making Myrtle hum.

“Let’s get a table anyway, he’ll show up if he shows up,” she decided, ever the practical one between the two. Many used to joke that Tom was the smart one but Myrtle was the one who rolled her sleeves up and got things done, she had that rare superpower amongst magicals called ‘Common Sense’, or as she liked to joke, ‘Genius in its Working Clothes’. 

They both ordered their lunch and got themselves comfortable at Tom’s usual table.

“What advice did you get yesterday anyway? Half the wizards that come here couldn’t get a partner if the Ministry made it mandatory,” she observed with a wrinkled nose at the various clientele, sipping her drink and keeping her voice quiet. 

Tom dug into his pocket for his diary and flipped it open at the back. It looked like he had filled four pages with… absolutely nonsensical scribblings. There were a few sentences that cut off as they went  _ off _ the page, their endings lost, likely to the table surface and then the cleaning charms that went over them at closing every night. It looked like there was a lot of conflicting advice in a big jumbled heap too.

“‘ _ Play with his tits _ ’?” Myrtle echoed, reading upside down with her eyebrows in  _ full _ Judgement mode.

There were a lot of things like that.

Biting was written three times and crossed out twice. ‘Eat his ass’ was also scrubbed out and rewritten elsewhere, along with a bunch of what he  _ believed _ were sexual positions and actions, many of which were obscure or mishead or written incorrectly because they remained an absolute mystery to him. But amongst the trash were some good ideas - gifts, icecream, robes, dancing, quidditch game, Hogsmeade, and walks were some of the better suggestions.

Myrtle nodded to see them, “Not bad, not bad. Drinks at the Three Broomsticks, a nice walk through a botanical garden or the countryside is a good idea if he’s as skittish as I hear, I’m not so sure about dancing or quidditch, the crowds might be a problem as well as getting close to strangers…” she mused thoughtfully as Tom the barman showed up with their lunches.

“Oh it isn’t crowds,” the barman grunted as he set their dishes down, “Guy was watchful but not stressed. Not until  _ this guy _ showed up,” he stated with a grin, slapping a hand down harder than necessary on Tom’s shoulder.

“Me?!” he demanded sharply, offended at the very idea his fiancee would be stressed by his presence.

The barman huffed in dry amusement, “He clearly wasn’t ready to even speak to you and within five sentences you demanded a marriage ceremony. Do you know anything about him?”

Tom straightened up and narrowed his eyes on the bartender, “I don’t appreciate your tone,” he informed the man coolly, drawing himself in defensively.

The barman lifted his hands in surrender, but didn’t stop smiling, “I’ll leave you to your meal,” he announced and returned to the bar. Point well made, leaving Myrtle to frown at him as Tom stiffly sipped his drink, pushing his anxieties away as he concentrated on making the most of his lunch hour and keeping an eye out for his future husband.

“What  _ do _ you know about him?” Myrtle eventually asked softly, her tone gentle but unapologetic.

Tom would have been stung, but she was probably one of the only people who could ask a question like that after such an exchange and he wouldn’t be upset. He sighed, “His name is Harry. His magic is heavily light orientated, he’s an incredibly quick spellcaster and has a spell repertoire that rivals my own. Much of the spells he uses are unknown to me. He likes butterbeer, and he’s likely either muggleborn or halfblood.”

Myrtle sighed in amusement, “And only one of things you learned from speaking to him,” she concluded. “Those powers of deduction could have done us a lot of good at St Mungos,” she lamented yet again. Tom wrinkled his nose, he knew his power, control, and intelligence would have made every mediwizard and witch salivate at the thought of recruiting and training him, but he did  _ not _ have the personality or patience to be a healer. To deal with the absolute stupidity of the human race at their most belligerent and volatile, when they were hurt and scared and angry. No. He could never do what Myrtle did. She was a better witch than he was. St Mungos was lucky to have her.

“He runs away before we can talk properly,” he muttered defensively.

Myrtle chuckled, “I’m not saying he doesn’t. But what causes it? What happens right before he does?”

He blushed and scowled down at his food. “I would have thought that he would  _ appreciate _ affirmation of my intentions. They are not likely to change.” Not now that he had found the one person in his life with magic Complimentary to his own. 

“Oh Tom, complimentary magic is just a helping hand. A ‘this person will give you strong heirs’. As in, you’ll go well together. It isn’t a soul bond or magical bond or anything like that. You’re still strangers to each other, magic or no. If an absolute stranger suddenly declared you were getting married, how would  _ you _ react?” she asked pointedly as she cut into her pork chops.

He looked away in annoyance. He would have cursed them directly into the Spell Damage Ward, and likely sent Myrtle after him with her bloodstained clipboard to beat him about the head for the countercurses. Which would mean that either his fiancee was of a similar rash nature, or too meek to protest… worryingly it seemed to be more likely that he was the latter. Too meek to protest. Tom frowned in worry. That wouldn’t do. 

He was going to have to be careful with his words, if Harry was running away because he didn’t want to agree to something but didn’t have the words to refuse, or the bravery to speak them, then he had best be more tuned into the younger man’s feelings. There were more ways to communicate than with just words, he would have to be more conscious of Harry’s tone, body language, and expressions and back off the moment it seemed like he was getting uncomfortable.

Myrtle waved a fork at him with a smirk, “Alright. Here’s your plan of action, Tom, next time you see him invite him to Florean Forescues’. The new icecream place on Diagon, it's just up from Twilfig and Tattings where the astronomy shop used to be. It’s winter right now, but there’s indoor seating and they offer hot drinks and desserts too. Ask what his favourites are, what food he likes, and take it from there.”

He nodded slowly. 

Yes, that made sense. If he wanted to build a long lasting relationship with his fiancee then he would need to start with the basics of who he was, his likes and dislikes. Tom had never had a long term relationship before, not with anyone he hadn’t known for years while in Hogwarts at any rate. Outside of Hogwarts it was the occasional weekend romp at  _ most _ . He could flirt with the best of them, but empty words to compliment someone’s physical appearance or the sound of their voice were just that - empty. And he hated the thought of degrading his fiancee to nothing more than an attractive face.

“If he’s muggle raised, don’t bother with flowers. Guys won’t like them. Don’t look at me like that, I know you were raised muggle, but you ditched that as soon as you hit eleven and never looked back,” she scoffed flicking a pea at him. Tom had to give her that, not that he would admit it. “Choose something useful rather than a handful of nice smelling weeds. I’d suggest avoiding clothes for now, it might come across as insulting. Like you don’t think he can support himself, or you think his appearance is slovenly or poor.”

“Well…” he admitted with a small wrinkle of his nose.

She flicked another pea at him, “Ah! None of that! He might not have much in the way of finances, he might  _ like _ what he’s wearing, they could be gifts, you don’t know. He might even think you’re looking down on him, like you don’t want to be seen with him unless he looks like he’s the same social class as you. You might be halfblood Tom, but you dress like a snob,” she told him plainly and he tried not to be insulting. He was a Department Head at the Ministry! He  _ had _ to dress like this! He was fairly sure he only achieved this position because they found out his mother’s family were connected to one of the Hogwarts Founders and decided that prestige outweighed his father’s filthy blood. Either way, if he didn’t look the part, he would receive complaints and possibly write ups for looking slovenly.

“Understood,” he sneered unhappily, finishing the last of his drink.

Myrtle suddenly straightened, “Tom, is that him? Over by the door to Charing Cross,” she hissed, nodding over his shoulder.

He glanced over and sighed, shaking his head. “No.” 

“Pity. He was cute,” she mused and he scoffed before getting to his feet.

“Somehow I don’t think he’s coming today,” he admitted unhappily as he threw down the money for their meals and gathered his cloak.

“Shame. I wanted to meet him,” his bestfriend declared cheerfully as she followed suit, pulling her own cloak on over her robes. “I’ll see you when I see you, Tom. Try to keep me in the loop? This is more interesting than that time Arget thought she had the cure for lycanthropy growing out of her sink!”

Tom shuddered, recalling the furore the apprentice healer had caused when she’d gotten delirious on her own potion fumes. It had been entertaining, if you were outside looking in. Myrtle thrived on chaos though and thought it was thoroughly entertaining, Tom got stressed just  _ listening _ to her accounts though.

The two separated and returned to their respective jobs, the afternoon passing without incident as Tom gave absent thought to a few of the… racier pieces of advice in his notebook. He had yet to consider Harry in any kind of sexual manner, Tom himself, despite his prior activities, didn’t consider himself to be a particularly sexual person. He had needs and occasionally went out to find assistance in dealing with them, that was it. But now that he had given thought to what Harry might be interested in, he found it very difficult to think of anything else, occasionally to the point of distraction forcing Prewitt to disturb him. Very embarrassing.

He didn’t expect the subject of his idle musings to be sat in his receiving room, quiet, and obviously uncomfortable, Medusa watching him like a hawk from her frame.

“Ahh, Master Tom,” the serpent haired woman greeted, “Your burglar has visited again, and oh so  _ kindly _ kept his hands to himself this time,” she sneered, obviously unhappy with his prior ransacking of the house.

“Peace, Medusa, he was seeking cursed artefacts out,” he soothed, watching as the young man tensed in his seat, trying not to make his sudden discomfort obvious. He huffed a small smile at him, “Thank you for your consideration, Harry, and I am sorry if I made you uncomfortable yesterday,” he said, sweeping his cloak off and throwing it over the back of the opposite couch and throwing himself down onto the soft dusky blue upholstery.

He was very delicate looking, wasn’t he? The former Ravenclaw decided, his eyes tracing the sharp angles of his fiancee’s face, his thin throat, and small bird-like hands. Dark hair and bright eyes and pale skin, yes, he looked quite lovely amidst the rich surroundings of Tom’s manor. He would look finer still in nicer robes, but Myrtle’s warning still rang starkly in his ears. No gifts of clothing until later in their relationship but… he was thinking vivid dark shades, jewel tones would look particularly appealing. 

“It’s fine,” Harry told him, his voice firm and surprisingly strong as he met his eyes dead on, no small feat given how his own had been stained dark blood red during that duel in his seventh year when Lestrange thought to practice some particularly deplorable Dark Arts on a few of the first years and Tom caught him in the act. He had very nearly been blinded but Myrtle had been quick with her charms, quick enough that Nurse Ravendale had been able to save his eyes - even if they had changed colour. “I’m sorry I ran so quickly but I needed to research something since we’re doing this marriage thing so quickly.”

Tom felt his eyebrows climb in surprise, unsure if he should be pleased or put off by the sudden appearance of a spine. Harry’s voice was surprisingly hard and determined, he sounded more like he was planning a combat engagement than a wedding.

“If you are uncomfortable, we needn’t - ”

“As soon as we can. Before I lose my nerve, or something happens,” Harry interrupted sharply, his mouth twisting unhappily. “I don’t have the best luck. If something can go wrong, it will. And usually in the most spectacular way possible. The sooner we do this, the better,” he declared, lifting his chin determinedly.

“...Indeed.” 

What could he really say to such a clear declaration? 

Hmm, perhaps he was getting an idea of how Harry felt when he made his own declarations regarding their marriage, this strange feeling of standing at the edge of a cliff and knowing that you were either going to fly or fall but not knowing if the tide would sweep you away, or the cliff would crumble beneath your feet.

Harry brandished a strip of parchment and slid it across the coffee table.

“I’ve heard horror stories about magical vows. I knew a man whose mother was unable to escape or protect him from his father after she underwent a Christian marriage and her vows were magically bound. Just as I know another man whose body was completely destroyed by a ricocheting dark magic curse when he inadvertently swore a vow and broke it almost immediately,” Harry explained, tapping the paper before leaning back. “I wanted to make sure that neither of these things would happen when we married.”

Tom frowned in confusion as he collected the parchment.

Vows were Old Magic, this was perhaps the first he’d heard of a muggle marriage ceremony magically binding a witch, perhaps the officiator had been a squib and unknowingly made those vows magically binding?

He skimmed the words on the parchment, paused, and then reread them much more carefully.

These were -  _ marriage vows _ .

“Are they okay? I tried to cover the important bits, like: No legilimency on each other, and no actively seeking to harm one another,” his fiancee listed casually, but when Tom flicked his eyes up from the carefully written vows, he could see immediately that he was nervous. No,  _ terrified _ .

...Just how close had he been to those people whose vows went so wrong? 

“They are more than okay,” he assured his future husband. He held them up, “May I keep these? I would like to memorise them.”

He nodded, shoulders loosening ever so slightly even as the faint lines around his eyes lessened, “Yes. That’s your copy anyway.”

Tom nodded, staring at the vows again before  _ forcing _ himself to fold them and slip them into his breast pocket, hand lingering just for a moment. He didn’t know how to feel. Or  _ what _ exactly he was actually feeling. But it was strong. It felt like sunlight had blossomed in the pit of his stomach, warm and bright, and left him feeling too hot for his own body.

“I missed you at lunch, would you like to join me for dinner?” he asked suddenly, recalling Myrtle’s advice. “I’m afraid to say I often work late so there won’t be much in the manor, but the Three Broomsticks in Hogsmeade serves food late into the evening if you would like to join me.”

There was an obvious hesitation.

“We could further discuss the wedding details.”

Harry nodded, “Sure. I’ve never been to Hogsmeade before,” he admitted uncertainly. 

Tom smiled reassuringly, “It’s a nice place. Entirely magical, you won’t need to worry about watching your words or actions there,” he promised as he got to his feet. “Would you prefer floo or side-along?” he asked as he gathered his cloak.

A conflicted expression crossed his face before his grimaced, squeezing his eyes shut in discomfort. “S-side along would be best. I’m not good with floo.”

Tom smirked and offered his arm, “Then shall we? The night is young after all.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Myrtle has the only braincell, and she isn't sharing.


	4. Chapter 4

The Three Broomsticks was heaving, as expected of the best pub in Hogsmeade. 

Heaving, Tom realised, was possibly the last thing that  _ Harry _ would be willing to deal with though, he was so dreadfully shy that so many people might set him to bolting again. He almost suggested they turn around and go for the ever empty Hogshead Inn, only to practically swallow his tongue at the thought of having a date  _ there _ of all places. Even that abomination of lace and floral upholstery Puddifoot opened a few years ago after her marriage would have been preferable to the Hogshead.

“It seems quite busy tonight,” he observed almost casually, fingers itching with the need to quickly snatch up his Husband To Be’s arm to prevent him from fleeing again. “Are you alright, or would you prefer to go somewhere quieter? Your choice.”

Harry glanced at the crowd with sharp eyes, and Tom was abruptly reminded of what Myrtle said, how he had been as twitchy as a vet fresh from the front line. He could see it now. The familiar way he had seen soldiers check the windows and doors, the people, the groups, the weapons. It was quick, casual, thoughtless. But Harry was far too young to have been involved with the War, he looked younger even than Tom and he had graduated the year it drew to an end. 

“This is fine,” his cute little stalker assured him, “It’s quieter at the back, near the fire,” he pointed out to where there were a few empty seats. That was one of the best things about the Three Broomsticks, the very clever charmwork the proprietor had laid on the building let it comfortably expand to host as many visitors as it received without losing any of its cosy charm.

“Good eye. Would you go and secure our table while I fetch some drinks? What’s your poison?” he asked as they began to strip out of their cloaks. 

Harry paused slightly, hesitating uncertainly, “...Just Butterbeer is fine. I still need to get home after this,” he said, reaching out for Tom’s cloak to take to their table. Part of him wanted to tell his Husband To Be that he was welcome to come home with him tonight, but he was concerned that it might be too forward again and scare him off. He may very well have been saving himself for marriage, it was still a common practice despite the war, or perhaps because of it? There were many unmarried young women with children now whose father’s had gone away to war and either not returned, or fled from their responsibilities. 

The two of them split away from one another, Tom heading for the bar while Harry went to secure them a place to sit. It took a few moments for one of the serving witches to notice him, he ordered their drinks and requested a few menus, the young lady cheerfully opening up a table tab for them and requesting that they come to the bar to order food once they’d made their mind up before trotting off to serve a rather rowdy blond further down the bar. She couldn’t have been long out of Hogwarts, Tom concluded with amusement and satisfaction as he gathered their drinks and headed towards the fireplace. It felt as though his generation had left Hogwarts like grey ghosts, quiet, fearful, and subdued, scarred and tired from a war none of them had been forced to take part in but suffered from all the same. It was nice to see the newer generations hadn’t suffered that.

He spotted Harry close to the fireplace. “One butterbeer and menu, my dear,” he announced, setting their drinks down and removing the menus from where he’d had them tucked up under his arm, not noticing the way Harry flinched slightly at his arrival, or the term of endearment. 

He sat opposite with a gusty sigh, stretching his legs out briefly accidentally rubbing an ankle up Harry’s calf before quickly pulling back when he saw the full body twitch from the other wizard. He buried his face in the menu. This ‘dating’ thing was so much harder than Myrtle made it sound. He’d never particularly had a problem as a teenager, and nor had he faced many difficulties finding an evening’s company, but a relationship was significantly different from a roll in the sheets. He supposed it was the level of investment he had in the interactions. He wanted this to work out, and work out well.

“I’m quite fond of the steak and ale pie they do here. What are you thinking of?” he asked, attempting to break the ice. Myrtle had said to try with innocuous subjects first, related to where they were or what they were doing, information gathering. Information he could use later when they were wed, like cooking his favourites for special occasions, or just because. 

He looked up to see his Husband To Be staring down at the menu looking a little overwhelmed, “The… Hunter’s Chicken sounds good,” he admitted after a moment before setting his menu down and reaching for his coin purse.

“Ah, don’t worry about it, Harry. I’m paying, I invited you after all,” he pointed out with as charming a smile as possible. “Have you had a moment to look at the dessert menu?” He would be having the coffee and walnut cake as usual, but he would skip if Harry was not keen on a dessert tonight, it would feel awkward eating without him.

He picked the menu back up and Tom reached for his wine, mentally cursing himself because this was just  _ awkward _ . How did he even  _ talk _ to Harry right now? It had been so easy before and now it just felt… like he couldn’t find the right words, that Harry didn’t  _ want _ to talk to him. Or couldn’t.

“Syrup Sponge. With custard?” he asked, peering up warily.

Tom nodded with a smile of relief, “Of course. Let me take your menu and I’ll go order at the bar,” he said as he got to his feet.

He needed a moment to think of some conversation starters. He would have to approach with food preferences first, then drinks, then desserts… where could he move on from there? Hobbies? His own were often met with dismissal and boredom from his prior romantic forays, no one particularly cared about the minutiae of curse breaking and spell damage reversal. Truly, he never would have considered it if it weren’t for his own personal experiences and Myrtle’s time in St Mungos, they presented him with some of the most  _ fascinating _ mysteries. How could he resist trying to unravel them even if he was singularly ill-suited to healing as a whole?

He made the order for both of their food, and headed back to the table, stopping for just a moment to observe his Husband To Be, it hitting him all at once that this was what he was going to be coming home to from now on.  _ This _ man was his future. Sat quietly, lit in golden candle light, dark haired and soft skinned, watching the people around him with an almost melancholy wistfulness, mouth curved ever so slightly upwards in a gentle smile as a couple laughed at a table not too far away, the lady wiping her partner’s face of cream from their dessert with a laugh as he tried to chase her fingers in order to lick it off before she could. His magic pulsed warm and content around him, and he felt it across his shoulders and skin like sunlight and found that if this were his future then he was wont to live forever, if only so he could stay by his side.

Tom shook his head, huffing in amusement and embarrassment at his own foolishness. He barely knew the wizard. He was not so naïve as to think that love was on the table  _ just _ yet, at least not from him. But… he realised that he wanted to, he wanted to be worthy of the love he was already being given, to return it eventually. It was a very different feeling, he didn’t really understand it, why he was feeling like this, or even where it  _ came _ from.

It must have been the Complimentary Magic. Harry didn’t seem to sense his own power, sense how to spread out around him, how it bolstered the people around him, how it sparked with his joy and anger, how it blazed whenever Tom was near. Recognising him and burning all the brighter for it.

For him.

He slipped through the crowd as if moving through a dream, stepping up to the table and seeing the exact moment his fiancée noticed him and straightened up, his magic blazing hot against his skin. He reached out to cup the man’s face and leaned down.

Harry flinched back.

And Tom froze.

They remained frozen for a moment, a breath, and Tom shifted, changing direction. And pressed a lingering soft kiss against his cheek, instead of his mouth. Feeling Harry’s breath shake against his neck as he breathed out.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to surprise you,” he murmured, pressing their temples together. “I - no, never mind,” he decided, stepping back, feeling that magic tremble and shudder over his skin. He had overstepped. 

“I - it’s - you’re fine. I’m just - not used to - touch,” Harry admitted, wrapping his arms around himself and looking away. That soft warm air around him dim and cold and - he hated it, he realised abruptly. He hated that the young man was subdued,  _ lesser _ than he had been before. That someone or something in his life had taught him that attention, that touch would only cause him pain, to the point where he would  _ cringe _ like that.

He nodded, retaking his seat, “It’s hard… remembering that not every pair of hands that touches you is going to hurt, especially when it’s happened so often that it feels like… it’s the only thing that has,” he admitted, recalling those days early in his friendship with Myrtle when she had been so desperate for positive human contact, the hugging and cuddling that she missed from her loving parents and family that she couldn’t get at school, and how he’d flinched and leaned away from her, so used to receiving a smack or a cane or any number of harsh reminders of his place.

Harry looked at him from over their table, those jewel-bright green eyes studying him like mirrors.

He looked away, “Yeah. Just… don’t ambush me. Sometimes I hex before I realise who it is,” he admitted, rolling his shoulders uncomfortably.

Tom nodded in understanding, “Of course. What contact is your preference?” he asked calmly, reaching for his wine, figuring they should probably get the hard conversations out of the way.

“I - none, really,” he admitted awkwardly. “I don’t have a preference, just… prior warning please.” He seemed to be debating something, chewing his lower lip but ultimately didn’t speak further.

He nodded, “I will keep it in mind. For myself… I have bad memories of my hair being pulled so I would request you don’t under any circumstances,” he explained stiffly, memories of Mrs Cole grabbing him by the hair when he was a more disagreeable child in order to force him to go into certain places he didn’t wish to. Like the church, or the showers, or her office. He spent quite some time at Hogwarts with his hair cut so short that it was practically impossible to get a grip on it, but it was not a very flattering look, Myrtle eventually managed to convince him to grow it back out - ostensibly so she could play with it.

Harry nodded, peeking up at him before looking down again, “Oh. That’s what you meant. Um. My neck… being grabbed by my neck. I lash out,” he admitted quietly.

His neck. Grabbed - he took a quiet breath and sipped his wine, setting his anger aside for another time with some difficulty. Right now was not the time to indulge his temper. “I see, thank you. I am sorry to ask such a personal question, but your blood status,” he began catching the way Harry bristled like a feline presented to the lake, “and your views. It is a subject I have something of a fraught history with, I would like to know where I stand with you on the subject.”

He was fighting some kind of internal battle, knuckles going white on his drink, Tom could feel his magic beginning to burn hot. It was clearly a sensitive subject as well, he wondered if perhaps he should have left it alone.

“I’m halfblood. Muggle raised,” he said shortly.

Tom nodded, pleased, “Like myself,” he said, somewhat cheered. That would explain the sensitivity, if his upbringing had been anything similar to Tom’s own then the treatment he would have likely received from arrogant purebloods would have been similar as well. “I didn’t know my family growing up, I later found out my mother was a witch when I went to Hogwarts. How about yourself?”

Harry was staring at him with wide eyes, his magic down to a simmer, “I - didn’t know either. My parents were murdered by the Dark Lord when I was an infant. I was raised with my mother’s sister. She hated magic,” he listed out dully, as if from a list. That would have meant both of his parents were magical, and yet he claimed halfblood? Ah yes, muggle raised, his mother must have been muggleborn. They truly were a mirror to one another. He looked away then, “I attended Hogwarts under a different name when I went, for my own protection.”

That must have been where he first saw Tom, though why on earth he never approached him then was - perhaps it was the difference in age?

“May I ask how old you are?” he prompted with a small frown. He was absolutely certain he would have noticed this young man’s magic if they had attended together.

“Twenty five. Why? How old are  _ you? _ ” he asked suspiciously.

Tom nodded slowly. Twenty five. Lord Almighty. No wonder he hadn’t noticed. He had long since  _ left _ Hogwarts.

“Thirty four,” he admitted dryly, “Seems as though I left two years before you joined. A pity,” he said with all honesty. He would have liked to know Harry as a child, he must have been very cute. 

The younger man blinked at him in astonishment, “Thirty four and already the Head of International Magical Cooperation? How many people did you kill to get  _ that _ position?” he asked only to immediately pale and flinch backwards at his words.

Tom just laughed, “No one. Honestly. Grindelwald launched an attack on the department on his rise to power, all of the senior staff were killed bar one. He didn’t want the position and managed to keep the department running. I graduated Hogwarts and a friend of a friend managed to get me an Assistant Clerk role there straight out of Hogwarts. As soon as I’d worked up a decent enough resume, Prewitt was practically  _ throwing _ the role at me. Given the amount of paperwork, I don’t blame him. If I’d known, I’d have politely declined.”

He got a bland disbelieving look that he did, in fact, deserve for such an untruth.

He would have still taken the role. But he would have demanded higher pay.

“How about yourself?”

“Aur- uh - I was planning on auror but… being under a false name, and the current political climate in the Ministry…” he trailed off uncertainly, looking away. Tom was surprised. 

“Auror? That’s quite a combat heavy job,” he noted with some worry.

Harry just shrugged, “Fighting’s all I’m good at, besides flying. It’s the only class I ever got O’s in.”

Tom leaned back, impressed despite himself. Defence was one of the few subjects he  _ hadn’t _ gotten an O in, despite his best efforts. He was pretty sure that it was because he punched Nott in the face when the other boy managed to banish his wand - since Tom hadn’t conceded, the duel was still on. And thus he broke Nott’s nose and took  _ his _ wand and turned it on him. Personally Tom thought he should have received extra credit for such an inspired move, but apparently it cost him his perfect score instead. He had been furious at the time, now though, whenever he saw Nott’s crooked nose and the look of black hatred in his eyes, he felt a warm glow of savage satisfaction. Petty? Yes. Undeserved? Absolutely not.

“Impressive. I was always more partial to Arithmancy and Charms myself. Was never very fond of potions, but that was purely because of the teacher.” Slughorn sent every single well developed instinct an orphan boy told to be wary of strangers crazy. The lavish gifts, the talk of favours and greatness, the way he oozed and tried to butter people up. He knew now that he was older that there had been  _ absolutely _ nothing sexual about it, that the man was a consummate Slytherin through and through, attempting to build his network of contacts, favours, and well wishers, at all times. But to a boy who had nothing but the fourth hand clothes on his back, the brain between his ears, and the young body he inhabited, the attention had been disturbing and threatening. He didn’t have anything to repay the man with materially, and so he feared that he would end up having to do so  _ physically _ , and so avoided him religiously outside of classes.

Harry snorted, “I know that feeling.”

Tom lowered his drink, “Slughorn try to get you too?” he asked sympathetically.

He nodded, shuddering with a grimace, “Who the hell named it ‘Slug Club’? That’s what I’d like to know.”

“I’m sure I don’t know,” he admitted. It was Myrtle. She hated how Slughorn’s attention made him uncomfortable on top of the fact that she wasn’t invited either, not special or skilled enough (despite the fact she was top of their charms class, but no, Olive Hornby received an invitation purely because her father was the head of some fancy Hippogriff stables in the Lake District), so she took to calling it the ‘Slug Club’ and she wouldn’t want to crawl around on a rotten cabbage for scraps and favours. Anything she made of herself in life, she would make BY herself, no help needed. Myrtle’s late teens had been surprisingly aggressive and volatile once she stopped crying all the time.

Their food showed up then and the meal itself was quiet but pleasant as they ate. Tom decided to be a little daring and stretch his legs out, gently brushing his foot against Harry’s leg, watching as he stiffened a little, glanced at him, but didn’t move away or react otherwise. Even when Tom added a little more pressure. Eventually his fiancée relaxed some, they ordered more drinks, Tom sticking with his red wine even though it would absolutely clash with his coffee and walnut cake later. For now though he had no intention of calling for their dessert just yet. He didn’t want the evening to end yet.

Not unless he was taking Harry home with him.

“I have been meaning to ask, what are your views on family? It seems like a rather important question to have before we marry,” Tom admitted, setting his wineglass down, drawing Harry out of his absent minded people watching.

The younger man blinked at him, something sad flickering across his face before he turned away again, “I - my bestfriend had a big family, I always thought it would be nice but I’m guessing that isn’t really something you’re interested in.”

Tom blinked, “When did I give you that impression?” he asked. Having a family had been one of those distant desires of his since childhood, like most orphans he had dreamed of the day when he had children of his own and mentally vowed to never leave them alone as his parents had done him. He would love them and raise them and treat them well and finally have a family and a home and a place to call his own. Finding a partner had been a distant second to his political aspirations, and in all honesty he hadn’t found anyone that particularly interested him enough to be willing to take time away from those to  _ build _ a family with. Until now.

Harry frowned at him as if he weren’t sure what he was saying, “You…  _ want _ kids?”

“Children, yes,” he admitted with a solemn nod. “I don’t think there was a soul in the orphanage who didn’t dream of having a large family of their own, of doing better by their own children than their parents had by them.”

His fiancée flinched and looked away. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to - ”

He reached out and caught one of those pale hands, “You need not apologise. This is why we are talking now. We don’t know each other that well… Perhaps Myr is right as we should delay the wedding until we’re better acquainted…” he mused.

Harry suddenly tightened his grip, “No! Please. I - ” Tom remembered the vows currently burning in his breast pocket and nodded to himself. 

He got up and withdrew enough sickles from his pocket to cover their meal, “Come with me,” he declared, tugging Harry to his feet and wrapping them up in their cloaks with a flick of his wand. 

“Wh-where are we going?” he blurted as Tom took his hand and began to pull him through the crowds of people back outside. 

The cold was a slap in the face as they stepped out into the darkness. The sound of the pub roared behind them in golden light that lit up the small white flakes as they drifted down from the sky, Harry making a noise of surprise at the early snowfall. Tom smiled in pleasure, perfect. He started walking, tugging Harry along after him without a word as he headed straight for the arches on the otherside of Puddifoot’s awful tea shop. Hogsmeade was the only purely magical village in England, that meant of course that it also had magical gardens, and this one was very popular Tom knew, for druid weddings.

Harry had obviously never been inside the garden, likely dragged to the shops and then the pub by his friends and never going anywhere else. But the garden was beautiful with its enchanted flowers and plants, its water features and creatures. But Tom was more interested in the fairylights.

He stopped and pulled Harry to face him, clasping both of his hands as the world went still and silent around them, snow falling around them, like white and gold glitter in the lights of the fairies around them.

“I, Tom Marvolo Riddle, do solemnly take this man as my lawfully wedded husband,” he began to recite, staring Harry in the eye, watching him stiffen and pale in confusion.  
“In sickness as he is in health, for richer and for poorer,  
I will preserve the sanctity of his mind, never trespassing upon this place.  
I will never work with malicious intent to harm him either mentally or physically, though hurts may occur I shall never seek to cause such.  
I will right his wrongs and support his good deeds, working as his equal for the betterment of the magical world.  
For all that he provides, I too shall as well. Should I give him a house, he shall provide a home. And together we will uphold the legacy of our forebears.  
To these words, I commit myself, and from this day forward I will try to be the best husband I can be.  
“So Mote It Be,” he finished, feeling the vow settle into his bones as his magic wrapped firmly around his chosen partner.

Harry’s breathing was quick, almost panicked as he swallowed, “I, H-Harry James - ” his lips pressed together with distress before he squeezed his eyes shut, “P-Potter, do solemnly take this man as my lawfully wedded husband.  
In sickness as he is in health, for richer and for poorer,   
I will preserve the sanctity of his mind, never trespassing upon this place.  
I will never work with malicious intent to harm him either mentally or physically, though hurts may occur I shall never seek to cause such.   
I will right his wrongs and support his good deeds, working as his equal for the betterment of the magical world.  
For all that he provides, I too shall as well. Should he give me a house, I shall provide a home. And together we will uphold the legacy of our forebears.  
To these words, I commit myself, and from this day forward I will try to be the best husband I can be.” His mouth opened to speak the final lines only for the words to get stuck, voice freezing in his chest. He was absolutely terrified to finish the binding. Tom pulled his hands up and kissed his fingers, waiting. 

“...S-so Mote It Be…” he exhaled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **_OH THE DRAMA!!!_ **
> 
> This chapter was like pulling teeth from Harry's POV, and it wasn't going anywhere, so I swapped and Tom made it happen - even if he decided to throw the script out and get the whole marriage thing out of the way like, right now, because he's dramatic and this is _ROMANCE_. All he has for a guide on the subject is Myrtle's terrible novels so, he thinks he's doing a good job. Harry meanwhile is chanting in his head "Don't be charmed. Don't be charmed. Don't be CHARMED. IT'S FOR THE SAFETY OF THE WORLD, YOU GOTTA MARRY HIM, DO NOT STAB HIM".

**Author's Note:**

> If you guys can think of tags for this carcrash, please by all means hit me with them. I apologise for everything and blame reighost ENTIRELY.


End file.
